


Memory is a Fickle Siren Song

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Some mildly dubious content, Stanford Era, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13120728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: Sam’s trying to pretend he’s getting by, that he doesn’t feel guilty for walking out on his family to go to college, when Dean shows up with no memory of who he is or that they’re even brothers.Sam’s just gotta take care of his brother until John gets there, but he didn’t anticipate Dean deciding to push past boundaries in the meantime.





	Memory is a Fickle Siren Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/gifts).



The shrill ring of Sam’s cellphone wakes him from a deep sleep. He bolts straight up, staring blankly at the phone while his brain reorganizes itself into coherent thoughts.

An unfamiliar phone number flashes across the screen, but Sam already knows who it is before answering it. No one else would call at 3 am.

“Your brother’s missing.”

***

Sam’s on his way to class when he sees Dean from across the quad.

He really hadn’t expected his brother to show here, not 1500 miles from where their dad lost him. Stunned, Sam freezes to the spot, watching as Dean approaches him, looking nervous and uncertain, his steps not faltering, however, as he strides over.

“Hey, um…” Dean looks lost, and somehow that unsettles Sam more than anything. Dean always pinned his confidence to his sleeve, always needed to be strong and sure in front of his little brother, trying his hardest never to let Sam see him scared. Sam knew anyway.

Dean scrubs a hand across his face, looking road-weary and apprehensive as he softly asks,  “Do I know you?”

“Yeah.” Sam tries to reassure his brother with a small smile. “You do.”

Licking his lips, Dean pauses, green eyes taking in Sam like it’s been years rather than months, and his voice cracks a little. “How do I know you?”

Sam should tell him. Although he has no idea how deep the memory loss goes, whether Dean can retain new information, remember their conversation an hour from now. The pain on Dean’s face from the night Sam left is still seared into Sam’s brain, how betrayed and empty his brother looked when Sam told him he was leaving. He doesn’t want to relive that, doesn’t want to have to explain why he left or risk drawing up the edges of that painful memory for Dean. 

So he lies. Or – ok, doesn’t tell the whole truth.

“We grew up together. Worked together. We went our separate ways less than a year ago.”

“Why would we–?” Dean cuts himself off, looking confused, and Sam curses himself for still managing to upset his brother when he was just trying to protect them both. Dean’s eyes dart around, taking in the campus, then looking down at Sam’s bookbag. “School?” he says, like a question. “What are you, um, studying?”

“Pre-law.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles in spite of himself, looking almost proud, and it makes something inside Sam ache. “You look like an egghead. Probably got straight-As in school, chess team captain, virgin for most of high school because you were too busy studying.”

“You got me pegged,” Sam answers, smile in his tone.

“I don’t think I’m the… studying type,” Dean muses.

“Well you sure as hell weren’t a high school virgin,” Sam answers. Dean grins, the big kind that is nearly always meant for Sam, eyes crinkled and rows of teeth flashing bright.

“You knew me in high school?” He sounds hopeful, like Sam might have all the answers he needs.

“Yeah, I told you,” Sam said, voice carefully upbeat and even. “I’ve known you a long time.”

“That’s good.” Dean looks like he’s not sure what he wants to do. If he’d had his memories and came to campus, Sam knows he’d be swept up in a hug right now. Even if Dean were still pissed about Sam leaving, he’d still need to wrap his arms around Sam and squeeze him tight. But Dean doesn’t know their history, doesn’t remember their childhood. So he shifts awkwardly and looks down, uncertain.

“You wanna go back to my place?” Sam asks. He’s already late for World Economics, and hell, it’s not every day he gets to see his brother. Not anymore. He can afford to skip this once. “I live off-campus, so it’s a bit of a walk and a bus ride.

“Oh – no. I drove. We can take my car.”

“You drove the Impala down here?” One unexpected part of leaving for college had been how much he’d actually missed the car. Sam’s not sure if it’s part of missing Dean or missing his childhood and all the memories inside. Probably both. But he’s inordinately happy to see the car when Dean walks them across the quad to the spot where Dean’s baby is parked.

As soon as Sam slips into the passenger seat, Dean turns to look at him, soft smile on his face, shoulders relaxing. He stares a bit too long, and Sam ducks his head, laughing awkwardly.

“You ok, Dean?”

“Yeah.” Dean shakes his head a bit, like he’s trying to clear it or maybe jog out a memory. “I don’t know how to explain it, man. I knew… something was missing. And then I saw you across campus and I knew. You were supposed to be sitting shotgun.”

It’s strange how open Dean’s being. He usually keeps everything inside. But there’s nothing inside Dean right now, no memories to anchor him, no trauma to shove things under.

Sam feels like he’s cheating, getting his brother back when Dean should still be mad at him. Although it wasn’t really like that. Dean was angry the night Sam left, yes, but Sam could tell there was way more fear and hurt than Dean could ever admit to.  
  


Sam’s apartment is small, but it’s all his. It’s quiet when they walk up the stairway, neither of them sure what to say. 

Sam gathers up some blankets and pillows, pulls out a set of pajamas Dean can use since he didn’t bring anything with him. He’s not sure how long Dean will be here, but he knows it’ll take at least a few days for John to make it over.

When Sam comes back to the living room, Dean’s in the middle of opening drawers and poking through things. He looks mildly guilty when Sam catches him, but grins and points to a stack of mail on Sam’s bookcase.

“You’re Sam.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s puzzled for half a second before it clicks. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I never told you my name. Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Sam Winchester.” Dean says it purposefully, like he’s testing it out.

“Yeah,” Sam repeats, something warm in his chest spreading because it’s been awhile since he’s talked to Dean, heard his brother say his name. He pauses, then grins and asks, “You hungry?”

He already knows Dean’s been driving for two days straight, barely stopping, hadn’t eaten on the way. There’s not much in the fridge, and Sam stares inside, trying to figure out what to put together. After a few seconds, Dean shoves Sam aside and starts pulling things out. Milk, eggs, butter, cheese. Leftover ham, some bread. The can of tomato soup in the cupboard.

By the time Dean’s done, there’s a croque-monsieur and some doctored tomato soup sitting in front of Sam, steaming hot and wafting delicious smells under Sam’s nose.

“Eat up, Sammy,” Dean says happily, waiting for Sam to pick up his spoon and take a sip, followed by a bite of his sandwich. “Good, huh?” Dean asks, and Sam suddenly feels like he’s eight years old again when Dean made this for the first time. Sam couldn’t pronounce it – didn’t know any French yet – and he’d called it a crocodile sandwich. It became one of Sam’s favorites, especially after Dean learned how to make a creamy bechamel sauce for it. 

“It’s great,” Sam agrees, and Dean grins that little-kid smile of his that comes out whenever he’s proud of himself.

“Hell yeah!” Dean says, taking a big bite of his own sandwich, chewing happily. “Pretty fucking amazing, right? Thousand times better than that take-out and wrinkly apples it looks like you’ve been living on. You’re not great at taking care of yourself here, buddy.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Sam dips his sandwich in the soup and takes another bite. The warmth goes straight to his belly. “I’ve been on my own less than a year, and it’s been, uh, an adjustment. Not used to being without family.”

“I can only imagine.”

They polish off their food fairly quickly, and Dean reaches for Sam’s plate. Sam tries to beat Dean to it but Dean insists on taking the dishes in. Before going in the kitchen, Dean steps next to Sam and reaches down, using his thumb to wipe off some tomato from the corner of Sam’s mouth. He smiles a little, fondly, and Sam looks up, staring while Dean’s thumb pauses.

The moment passes in an instant as soon as Dean steps away, not looking back as he takes their dishes to the sink.

As soon as the faucet’s running, Sam’s cellphone rings. He looks at the caller ID then flips it open and answers a bit sheepishly. It’s Brady.

“Sam,” his friend greets him. “Where were you today? You were supposed to bring me the notes from Monday.”

“Yeah – uh… sorry about that.” Sam’s hesitates, not sure how to explain. “Old friend came into town. I’m not sure I can make studygroup tonight either.”

“Aw, Winchester, we need –” 

Dean steps back in the room and waves a hand at Sam. “Dude, you don’t gotta cancel for me,” he insists.

Sam covers the phone. “It’s ok, they can study without me for one day.”

“No, really. You don’t need to cancel just because I showed up announced.” There’s a stubborn edge to Dean’s jaw that Sam recognizes.

“I can’t leave you here,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “You have no memory, you don’t know where anything is.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child. You don’t gotta babysit me. And I can go with you if you’re that worried.”

“You wanna go with me t–” Sam’s suddenly aware of Brady’s voice on the other end of the phone, repeating Sam’s name louder and louder. “Oops, sorry Brady,” Sam says, removing his hand and putting the phone back to his ear. “Ah, so I guess… I guess I’ll be there. Is it cool if I bring my friend along?”

“Yeah, sure. Hope he doesn’t get too bored with all the statistics talk.”

***

Dean insists on coming into the study room with Sam as well and refuses to stay out in the library. Scoffs at the suggestion that he could read or hop on a computer. The whole study group is already waiting inside, and before Sam can say a word, Dean’s shaking hands and introducing himself as Sam’s “hot friend from out of town.”

“Just thought I’d come by and see where all the magic happens,” Dean says, throwing a wink and grinning. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing your group, but I’m only visiting for a few days.”

The rest of Sam’s group members seem charmed as Dean goes around, asking names and cracking jokes. Esperanza blushes as she offers Dean some of the cookies she brought, while Brady grabs Dean’s hand, squeezing hard and giving him a hard, assessing look.

Cookie in each hand, Dean happily sits to the side when they start pulling out notes. Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to look bored. Which, after a minute, he does. But he doesn’t seem to want to leave either.

Between numbers talk, Brady’s keeps shooting glances over at Dean, chair creeping closer to Sam’s after every look. It’s unsettling, and Sam throws a few warning glances Brady’s way although the guy doesn’t seem to notice.

Suddenly, an arm cuts between Sam and Brady, reaching for the cookie tin in the middle of the table. Dean’s body follows, nudging between Sam and Brady, forcing them to make room.

“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” Dean says, still all charm and smiles. “These are seriously the best things I’ve ever eaten.” He winks at Esperanza and holds up a cookie in salute. “I bet these are what makes you the most popular study group on campus.”

The group decides to quit a bit early – the next test isn’t for three weeks, and they all seem to assume that Sam wants to spend some time with his friend. Before Sam leaves, Brady grabs him to exchange class notes and lets him know what he missed in today’s class.

“How long’s your friend staying?” Brady glances over at Dean who’s staring steadily at them both while holding the tin of cookies that Esperanza insisted Dean take with him.

“I’m not sure,” Sam admits. “Could be a few days, maybe more.”

Brady makes a soft, pensive “hmm” sound while putting his things in his backpack. “Well, have fun, Winchester. See you next class.”

He and Dean trek back out to the parking lot where Dean’s Impala is waiting. As Sam slips inside, he feels the strange tension fading a little.

“Hope you weren’t too bored.”

“Nah,” Dean replies immediately, throwing a wry grin Sam’s way. “Although I couldn’t follow any of that stuff you guys were talking about. Way over my head.”

“We’re more than halfway through the semester,” Sam replies. “We’ve been through a lot of material. It was all over my head before this class.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s fingers are tapping on the steering wheel, no specific rhythm, just unsteady beats without a cadence. “So uh…” Dean clears his throat. “You sleeping with Brady?”

"What?” Sam’s mouth goes Sahara-dry. It takes two attempts before he manages to pull up enough spit to swallow. “No.”

Dean makes a small  _ tsk _ sound and shakes his head. “Guy doesn’t get that protective over something he hasn’t either tapped or wants to tap.”

Sam makes a face at Dean’s choice of words. “Yeah, ok,” he reluctantly admits with a sigh. “Couple times. We got drunk, fooled around a little. Nothing big.”

Dean nods, eyes still on the road, carefully not looking at Sam. “He know that? That it was no big deal?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers firmly. “S’not like he’s asked me out on a date or anything after. It just happened, we moved on. Like I said, no big.”

A soft, disbelieving sound hums out from Dean’s nose, and Sam fights back the urge to get defensive. Dean’s always been an ass about anyone Sam’s dated. But Sam’s an adult now, legal and everything. He knows what he’s doing. He can take care of himself.

They pick up some food on the way back to the apartment then crash on the couch and watch  _ The Outlaw Josey Wales _ because two months ago Sam had seen a collection of Eastwood films in a bargain bin and couldn’t pass it up.

He spends most of the movie watching Dean watching the screen, enjoying the familiar five-year-old grin that shoots Sam’s way every time something cool happens, the way he gasps and grabs Sam’s arm during all the gunslinging scenes.

“This guy is awesome,” he says reverently, and Sam smiles fondly. 

“He’s your favorite,” he offers. Dean nods like he appreciates the tidbit and agrees, shooting Sam another quick little-kid grin before looking back at the screen.

Sam offers Dean the bed but knows it’s a losing battle before it starts. Dean flat-out refuses.

“Doubt that Sasquatch ass would fit here anyway,” Dean adds as he starts unfolding blankets and rearranging pillows in a clear claim on the couch. Sam doesn’t reply that Dean’s not that much shorter than him – nor does he say what he’s been thinking since he saw his brother. That Sam’s grown a few inches since he’d last seen Dean, and he’s been dying to know what his brother thinks about having to now crane his neck up to look into Sam’s face. But this Dean wouldn’t know the difference.

Halfway through the night, Sam wakes up to strangled shouts. The sound makes his blood run cold, instant panic mode, and he leaps out of bed, running into the front room, flipping on lights and glancing frantically around. The sight of Dean unharmed, of no other entity in the room, is reassuring for half a second, but Dean’s scared eyes ratchet up Sam’s pulse even higher, and he runs over, hands sliding around Dean’s shoulders, rubbing warm friction and trying to get his brother to calm down. Dean startles and tries to shove his hands against Sam’s chest, fighting Sam’s hold, but Sam grabs him tighter, refuses to let Dean push him away.

“Shh, shh. It’s ok. You’re safe.”

“I – where – what’s going on?” Dean finally looks at Sam, seems like he maybe recognizes him, but his eyes keep darting around the room, obviously not sure how he got here or what’s happening (or who he is).

“Your name is Dean, I’m – I’m your friend. Sam.” Cupping Dean’s face, he tries to get his brother to look at him. Sam slows his breathing to an exaggerated calming pace, hoping that Dean instinctively follows his example. “You’re in my apartment, crashing for a while. You’re ok, Dean. You just… lost some of your memories. But you’re ok.”

Eventually, Dean’s breathing slows, deepens. Green eyes flick up to stare into Sam’s face, body losing the worst of the tension as he steadies himself, nodding a little like he’s remembering this past day.

“I’m – I’m Dean,” he says, eyes closing for half a second, like he’s trying to make that sink in.

“Yeah.” Sam pets at Dean’s face soothingly, waiting until Dean’s eyes open again. “Hey, c’mon,” he says, keeping his tone light as he takes a step back, grabbing Dean’s arm to gently tug him along. He guides his brother to his bedroom and manages to get Dean to sit. “I think you might get a better night’s sleep in a real bed.” He tries to keep his voice firm, lowering it to try to get that John Winchester deep pitch that Dean instinctively obeys. He thinks it works because Dean nods his head in agreement. He stays long enough to see that his brother’s alright, murmurs small reassurances, then encourages Dean to get some sleep.

Just as he’s about to walk away, Dean’s hand darts out to grab Sam’s arm, fingers digging firmly into Sam’s wrist.

When Sam looks down questioningly, Dean hesitates before rushing out with, “Please. Stay. I…” Sam nods, watching Dean lick his lips, and when he turns his eyes up to look at Sam, there’s a vulnerable sheen to them. “I don’t wanna wake up like that again. Please?” he asks again, voice cracking on that last word.

There’s no hesitation. “Of course.” Dean relaxes and drops his hand while scooting over to make room.

Nothing short of a queen actually fits Sam comfortably, so there’s plenty of space. But Dean reaches out to tentatively put his hand on Sam’s arm. When Sam shoots him a questioning look, Dean barks a nervous laugh, like he can’t help it. “Shut up,” he says with a familiar light growl, and Sam smiles.

“You shut up, jerk.”

A wry smile passes Dean’s lips, and the unspoken reply hangs in the air. It was a long-shot, and Sam shouldn’t be surprised, but he’s disappointed when Dean doesn’t shoot back with a “Make me, bitch,” like he would have done in normal circumstances, sans amnesia.

Dean sleeps well except for waking up one more time that night. Sam feels the hand on his arm tighten, and he rolls to face his brother, sleepily murmuring, “You’re Dean. I’m Sam. I’m taking care of you.”

Reassured, Dean goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up again until morning.

***

Light snores wheeze against Sam’s ear when he stirs awake, before Dean like he’d hoped. His brother’s hand is still on his arm, and Sam carefully extracts himself, puts Dean’s hand on Sam’s warm pillow, and slides out of bed. He stares down at his brother for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. It’s strange how natural sharing a bed still feels, how safe Sam feels when Dean’s nearby. Right now, however, things feel upside down, Sam taking care of Dean, Dean looking to Sam for answers.

He still can’t believe that Dean drove over 1500 miles to him like this. Their dad hadn’t been completely forthcoming about what happened, but he’d supplied Sam with the basic information. Whatever the spell was, it stripped it’s victims of their memories, turned their heads empty. But also gave them a deep need to go  _ home _ . Or whatever they considered their home. For one man, it was his mistress’s apartment, for another woman, it was two cities away in a tiny hairdresser’s shop where she’d worked until she’d met her wealthy and much older husband.

Sighing, Sam grabs his phone and walks out into the living room, dialing his dad’s number. He knows he should have called the moment he saw Dean. He knows he was being selfish. But sue him, he wanted to keep his brother for a day before dragging their dad back into things.

“I found Dean,” he says as soon as John answers.

“What? Really?” John sounds surprised, and for some reason that makes Sam bristle.

“Yes, really.” He remembers to keep his tone in check just in time, doesn’t want this to be a fight despite nearly every conversation ending up that way.

“Ok.” His dad pauses, obviously trying to formulate a plan. “I had another hunter check back in with that hoodoo witch and we think there’s a cure. I gotta pick it up first. Can you meet me in Oklahoma?”

“What? God no, that’s a twenty-four hour drive. I can’t take off a week from school to drive halfway across the country and back.” He already knows it’s exactly the wrong thing to say even before his dad’s heated answer.

“Goddammit, Sam, this is for your brother! Can you put your damn suburbia life on hold for a few days to help him out?”

“He’s doing  _ fine _ right here,” Sam answers, trying to keep his voice from getting loud enough to wake Dean up. “In fact, I’m sure time away from all that hunting crap will do him good. He’s not a wind-up toy, he does need a break every now and then.”

“You do realize we were on a case? That people are getting hurt?”

“You said they wandered around lost for a few days before popping back up in their homes. That doesn’t sound like a life-or-death situation to me,” Sam scathingly replies. “It sounds like something you could have your hunter buddy take care of while you bring the cure to Dean.”

There’s a long pause accompanied by deep, rumbling breathing. Finally, John grunts out, “Ok, son. If that’s how you want it. I’ll be there as soon as I can to take Dean off your hands.”

The line goes dead before Sam can reply, and he stares at the phone in his hands, gritting his teeth and trying to figure out why it’s so easy for John for push his buttons this way. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty for  _ going for college _ , of all things. Most families would be thrilled to have their son offered a full-ride to a prestigious university. Most families wouldn’t guilt their sons over leaving a dangerous and psychologically scarring “job” to do something normal instead.

The Winchesters aren’t most families.

A creak behind him makes Sam whirl around and he sees Dean coming out of the bedroom. His hair’s sticking up in bedhead swirls, his cheek creased with pillow marks, and his eyes half lidded.

“Did I wake you?” Sam asks. “Did you hear all that?”

“Just the very end,” Dean answers, rubbing a fist into his eye. Sam studies him carefully. Dean’s always lied to him as easy as sin, has never had a problem withholding the truth to protect Sam from monsters, from the world, from himself. But this Dean… doesn’t have the same history. Doesn’t have a reason to lie.

It takes Sam a few seconds to figure out how to explain things, but he eventually goes with the truth. “That was your dad.”

“Oh.” Dean’s mouth gapes open for a few seconds, eyes moving away from Sam in thought. “Does he know what’s going on?”

“Yeah. And he’s coming to get you. He thinks he’s got something that’ll fix your memory problem.”

“Like what? A magic potion?” Dean scoffs and Sam hides a smile.

“Not sure,” he answers instead. “But he’ll be here in a few days.”

“Alright.” Sam’s not sure how to interpret Dean’s expression. He looks a little uneasy. But then Dean looks back up at Sam and comments, “Sounded like an argument. You two don’t get along?”

“He’s an asshole,” Sam answers then turns around and heads to the kitchen to get them both some coffee.

His first class isn’t until two. Usually, Sam takes the morning to study. He finds he gets more done that way which is why he set up his schedule so late. But he decides to kick back with Dean instead. Dean makes them a gigantic stack of pancakes that could probably last them for the whole week. Sam doesn’t have any maple syrup, but Dean makes something sticky and sweet by whipping butter and honey together, adding some cinnamon. God, everything Dean does reminds Sam of his childhood, keeps pulling up memories from years ago. The makeshift syrup reminds Sam of being snowed in to a cabin somewhere in Montana, the heater barely able to cough out a non-freezing temperature, and John off in uncharted woods, tracking something that had torn up a couple of campers. 

They’d been worried about their dad, and it had been over a week since they’d seen him. John had taken a tent and a sub-zero sleeping bag with him, told the boys he might be a few days, but they hadn’t expected him to be gone this long. If Dean had known where to even begin to look, he might have gone after him, but John hadn’t left so much as a map and there was no cell service at all.

To keep Sam’s mind off of things, Dean had scrounged up a couple puzzles he’d taken from the office, even though Dean didn’t really like puzzles. But it was better than nothing. He’d also kept Sam’s belly warm and full with pancakes, and when they’d run out of syrup, he’d substituted honey instead, whipping it with butter and something else from the cupboard, and Sam swore up and down it tasted even better than store-bought syrup.

By the time John had finally made it back, a little worse for the weather but otherwise unharmed, Sam was actually having a decent time. Dean had kept him entertained with shadow puppets when the TV had gone out, and Sam – seven at the time – had forgotten to worry. Dean, however, looked like he was about to cry in relief, running over to help his dad unload his equipment, take off his boots, and told John not to worry, he was just about to make dinner, he could go take a warm shower, the water heater hadn’t crapped out yet, thank god.

Part of Sam is happy Dean doesn’t have these memories to weigh him down. It’s nice to see Dean so open, laughing at some dumb show on the TV, throwing smiling glances at Sam and looking way more relaxed than Sam’s seen Dean in a while. Even though he hadn’t actually seen Dean in a while.

Sam doesn’t really feel like spending the day watching daytime TV, so he goes next door to borrow the Nintendo console from his neighbor who’s got early classes but Sam knows won’t mind. 

He and Dean spend the afternoon playing  _ Castlevania _ and  _ Kirby _ , fighting over the controller a few times, wrestling just because they can and Sam hasn’t laughed so much in a long time. The two bruises on his cheek and collar are more than worth it, especially since Dean’s got a matching one on his shin along with rug burn on his knee.

Before Sam had left for Stanford, he’d had a crazy dream that Dean could come with him. Work in a garage, maybe, or even enroll in classes. They could find an apartment together, find some brand of Normal™, or something close enough to pass for a Winchester.

It had been a crazy, impossible idea. And yet here Dean is, fitting inside this life that Sam fought so hard for, comfortable even in suburbia. Sam tamps down the voice inside his head that keeps trying to remind him that everything is temporary. He knows. He just doesn’t wanna think about it.

Sam hesitates to leave Dean alone, but he hates missing classes, and it’s just for a couple hours. He makes Dean promise not to leave the house, not to answer the door. He wants to put down salt lines, but that would definitely cause Dean to ask too many questions Sam doesn’t know how to answer, so, uneasily, he finally leaves.

Dean does offer to let Sam drive the Impala to cut down on commute time, and Sam takes him up on it. It’s been awhile since he’s driven Dean’s Baby. When he’d been on the road with hours ahead and behind, sometimes no specific destination in mind, he’d hated driving. Hated being cooped up and road sore. But now, just driving to campus, seeing the admiration in other peoples’ eyes when he passes by, it’s nice.

He races back as fast as he feels comfortable driving, locks the doors then sprints up the stairs. Dean’s still on the couch where he’d left him, controller still in his hands, although he pauses the game and puts it down when Sam comes in the door.

“Hiya, Sammy,” Dean greets him cheerfully. Sam has no idea what he thought would happen, but his heart is still thumping hard inside his chest, and he has to take a few deep breaths to slow it down. Dean being here was just so strange, so unexpected. He’d half expected to blink and have Dean disappear just as suddenly as he’d appeared. But he’s still here.

“Hey Dean.” He smiles because it’s just so good to see his brother, especially without the weight of the world crushing his shoulders. Almost surprising himself, he suggests, “Wanna hit up a campus bar tonight?”

***

They end up at the sleaziest bar on campus, which actually isn’t all that sleazy. It caters to the slightly older college crowd and has music that Sam knows Dean won’t hate.

They end up shooting pool, beer bottles lining the table by the time they’re halfway through a game. Dean tries to convince Sam to put some money on it, but Sam just laughs and asks Dean, “With  _ what _ money? You left your wallet behind.”

Thick lashes flutter minutely, and if Sam didn’t know better, he’d swear Dean’s flirting when he purrs out, “I’m sure I could find some other way to settle up – although it’s a sure bet I’m gonna win anyway, so that’s a moot point, Winchester.”

There’s no part of any of what Dean said that doesn’t throw Sam, and he watches a slow smirk stretch his brother’s lips, obviously pleased with Sam’s nervous reaction.

“So you in?”

There’s an expression on Dean’s face that Sam’s never seen aimed at him before, something predatory and knowing. Pretending his heart’s not suddenly racing, Sam shrugs as casually as he’s able. “Nah, don’t think so. Maybe another time.”

Dean looks disappointed but shrugs and lines up his cue to break.

Apparently the amnesia hasn’t affected Dean’s skills at pool, and they trade off wins. Dean gets cockier with every game, getting a little obnoxious after putting a couple pitchers on Sam’s tab, although Sam doesn’t mind. Might’ve actually missed this.

Sam’s watching Dean try to pocket the three-ball when he feels someone nudge right next to him, invading his space and obviously trying to get his attention. When he turns to look, a little irritated, he sees a guy he’d met in this same bar a month back. They’d talked over a few drinks, the guy older and carefully assessing Sam, making sure they were on the same page before inviting Sam to his place. Sam had specifically gone out that night to get laid, had wanted someone solid and older for a one-night stand. The sex hadn’t been bad, although nothing earth-shattering or something Sam had cared to repeat. He’s pretty sure the guy’s name is Glenn, although he’s not positive. 

“Hey, Sam.” The guy grins, still more in Sam’s space than he’d like. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, not really looking Glenn’s (Greg’s?) way.

“You look good,” maybe-Glenn continues, daring to reach out and put a hand on Sam’s arm. Then, bolder, “You got plans for tonight?”

Sam’s just about to let the guy down with some kind but firm words when he feels an arm sling around his shoulders and pull him tight against a firm chest.

“Sammy!” Dean interrupts, voice loud and grinning. “Damn, I shoulda known better than to let a hot piece of ass like you walk around without a promise ring or somethin’. Can’t let you outta my sight for a second.”

Glenn’s wide-eyed and slack mouthed, caught off guard. Sam can see the moment that expression changes, however, from shock to sudden, heated interest. Not that Sam can blame the man. He’s always been aware of how hot his brother is, how eyes follow Dean’s walk across the room, every movement filled with unconscious sexuality, the way Dean’s unchecked laughter brings every eye to him.

But Dean just keeps grinning at Glenn, both men silent until Glenn finally gets the message, drops his eyes and turns away. Sam almost feels sorry for the guy.

Dean watches the man walk away, smirking almost cruelly. His face turns to Sam’s, arm still wrapped tight around Sam’s shoulders. “I guess I should do something about you unless I want our little pool tournament to keep getting interrupted.”

Something in Dean’s expression turns Sam uneasy, but he doesn’t have time to voice his concern before Dean’s got a finger under Sam’s jaw, is turning it toward himself so he can lean in and kiss Sam, mouth sealing tight and hot.

For the first few seconds, Sam’s too surprised to do a damn thing. But the second the shock dissipates, his brain pings him with the very helpful thought that this feels nice, and, ok, he can’t help it if he’s always kinda wondered what Dean’s mouth would feel like against his own. And it’s good. Dean mouth is going soft and deep, tongue just barely flicking along Sam’s bottom lip, skating all kinds of sensations along the sensitive skin there.

God, this is so wrong. But it’s also over before Sam can do anything, Dean pulling back with a pleased smile, thumb brushing at the corner of Sam’s now-wet mouth.

“That should give us some privacy for a while,” Dean smugly says before stepping back and reaching for his pool cue. Completely oblivious to Sam’s sudden moral crisis.

Dean wins the next three games. He teases Sam about it as they walk out of the bar, bumping against his shoulder and laughing until Sam gives in and laughs about it too. Neither of them are sober, nor had they planned on being tonight, and they take a taxi back to Sam’s apartment. Once inside, they start stripping off jeans and jackets, and the open air feels so good against the sweat dripping down Sam’s neck. Heat is radiating from Sam’s flushed skin, and the air slipping in from under the window frame isn’t much cooler. Sam hesitates half a second before deciding that there’s no way he’s gonna strangle himself with a t-shirt tonight so he forgoes it, leaves pajama bottoms in the drawer as well, and stays in his boxers. Dean follows suit.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is soft when Sam slips under the covers, and Sam rolls to face him, something nervous knotting inside his stomach. It’s hard to pinpoint the feeling, though, with all the alcohol making his thoughts slippery.

“Yeah?”

“Anythi’g ever happen ‘tween us?” Dean’s squinting over at Sam, and Sam thinks about pretending he doesn’t understand what Dean means. But that feels almost worse somehow, like he’s trying to hide something.

“No.” 

Dean hears the sharpness in Sam’s tone, and his brows draw together, confused. His words are slurred, but Sam gets the jist of it.

“Sam, you can’t – can’t tell me something’s not ‘here. God, you’re always in m’ space, never more’n a hand’s reach away. ‘N I can’t shake th’ need t’ take care o’ you, make y’ happy. This doesn’t... feel like childhood friends t’ me, man.”

“We’re… jus’ close,” Sam tries to explain, but it doesn’t seem like enough, and  _ god _ , why hasn’t he told Dean?  _ We’re brothers. Closer than brothers, really, grew up in each other’s pockets, you were my mother, father, best friend, all in one, took care of me when it felt like the world had abandoned us. And I broke your heart when I walked out, didn’t even warn you, just left because I was too afraid to tell you and I knew you wouldn’t understand. _

He can’t get the words out, can’t even try, but suddenly Dean’s in his space again, kissing him, and that feels better than facing all the reality and pain right now, so Sam kisses him back. That niggling voice gets pushed to the back his head, the one that tells him there’s gonna be consequences for this, this isn’t something they can come back from. That Sam’s fucking things up even more.

But then Dean’s mouth is on his collarbone, and Sam stretches his neck to the side, fingers in Dean’s hair while Dean sucks wet heat into Sam’s skin. Sam sinks into the sensation, body feeling warm and slow. A couple muted noises escape Sam’s mouth, and he’s embarrassed but doesn’t know how to make himself stop. Dean’s mouth slides back up Sam’s chin, sealing their mouths together as he sucks more sounds out, tongue petting against Sam’s until all Sam can hear are the wet and dirty sounds they’re making.

Dean’s always teased Sam about being a girl, about not being able to have sex without an emotional connection. He’d be surprised by how different Sam’s been since starting college, how he’s refused to do anything with emotion, how everything’s been one-night stands. And Sam hates to admit it, but it’s chipping away at him. But he can’t afford to do anything different.

“Y’ taste good,” Dean murmurs, lips rubbing against Sam’s jaw, tongue peeking out to trace skin, and then he’s got Sam’s earlobe between his teeth. Gently gnawing. The sensation goes straight to Sam’s dick, making it twitch despite the multiple rounds of beer they’d both gone through.

That vibration of heat jacks up Sam’s adrenaline, pulls up something deep-rooted that could possibly be related to brotherly competition, how he’s always wanted to get the upper hand with Dean, wanted to take control and prove that he can. Grabbing his brother’s arms, Sam flips them around and shoves Dean back. He slides a thigh between his brother’s legs and hauls himself on top. Dark pupils pulsate inside bright green eyes and Dean’s cheeks flush until his freckles stand out like inverted constellations.

Dean’s into this.

“Knew you had it in you.” The words are said breathlessly, interrupted by a swipe of a pink tongue over what Sam’s always thought were the plushest lips in the world. Rolling his hips into Sam’s, Dean smirks. “You after somethin’, kiddo?”

Sam hums before leaning down, getting his mouth on Dean’s chest, open-mouthed gentle sucks that turn harder as he tries to gauge how much pressure Dean wants by the way his fingers tighten in Sam’s hair.

At some point, Sam’s worries about leaving bruises. But the harder he sucks, the harder Dean fists his hair, the higher his chirps and gasps go. Sam lets his fingers play with Dean’s tits as he sucks pink marks into Dean’s freckled belly, but it isn’t until Sam gets his teeth on a little red nub that his brother arches off the bed with a broken-bird cry.

“You like that?” Sam smiles around a mouthful of skin, and Dean makes some kind of hurt hum of agreement. Sam had no idea that his brother sounded so pretty while getting his tits sucked. Or that he liked being manhandled this much.

When Sam feels Dean’s hand slip down, sliding between Sam’s legs, he casually reaches down to grab him by the wrist, forcing Dean still.

“Wait,” Sam says firmly, pushing himself up just enough so he can kiss Dean on the mouth, deep and apologetic. His thoughts are still a bit jumbled, trying to swim through alcohol and adrenaline. But he’s aware enough to know this is… more than he signed up for. “Not… tonight. Not sure I can even get it up with three pitchers of Coors still in my system.”

“No problem, Romeo,” Dean answers easily, smiling full and warm. “No rush. Wanted to do just this all day.” He leans up to kiss Sam again, hand moving up to Sam’s bare stomach, swirling his fingernails along muscle and skin until Sam shivers. “S’ok, getting tired anyway,” Dean continues, and he starts nudging Sam over, rearranging them both until Sam’s arm is behind Dean’s neck and Dean’s face is on Sam’s chest.

It’s just comfortable enough that Sam decides not to overthink this. Dean’s cheek and shoulders are warm against Sam’s skin, and he pets at Dean lightly with his fingertips, soothing them both until they fall asleep.

***

Dry-mouth greets Sam when he wakes up, and he smacks his lips a few times, trying to get his saliva working again. There’s a pressure against his side that feels unexpected, although not entirely unfamiliar, and he can feel the throb of a hangover headache that’s threatening to burst his skull that moment he’s vertical.

Slowly, he pops his shoulders, nudges himself to a sitting position, and blinks down at Dean. The night before comes back in a sudden rush, every horrifying image from start to finish.

Sam’s gonna be sick.

He rushes to the bathroom, feels the bile rise at the bottom of his esophagus but tries to relax, tries to keep it all down. It doesn’t work.

After taking a piss and rinsing his mouth out five times, Sam grabs some aspirin from the bedside table, pours a handful into his palm, and swallows them all down. He places the bottle along with a filled water of glass on the table next to his brother then leaves the room.

His feet go back and forth between the living room and kitchen, head hurting and body aching, so disgusted with himself. Dean doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter if Dean started this (he did) because Sam had lied to him, and it’s too late now to tell the truth. This is already in motion.

When Sam can’t stand it anymore, he scribbles a note for his brother, fills up the coffee pot and sets it to brew, then grabs his jacket and leaves.

_ Hey Dean -  _

_ Needed to finish up a paper, working at the library. _

_ Help yourself to coffee and anything in the fridge. _

_ I’ll be back in a couple hours _

_ DON’T leave the apartment _

_ -Sam _

He actually does have some homework to catch up on, and Sam ends up heading to the library despite that not actually having been a real plan when he’d written it down.

His headache’s still not quite gone, so Sam finds  one of the couches in the lobby, curls his body in it, and sips on a water bottle while trying to write out some notes on  _ Beowulf _ . Eventually, he just closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing, willing his body to stabilize and stop hurting.

He’s not sure how long he’s out. But a palm dropping on his head startles him back awake, and he opens his eyes to see Dean staring down at him, expression quiet. Dean’s fingers pet at Sam’s hair until Sam straightens up, wincing as his body reminds him not to make sudden movements like that.

“Quite a hangover, huh buddy?”

“Haven’t binged like that in a long time,” Sam answers uneasily.

Teasing smirk on Dean’s lips. “Didn’t expect you to be such a lightweight.”

“Hey, you were just as drunk as me last night.” Sam glares because Dean  _ has  _ to be feeling just as crappy as he is. “There’s no way you’re not just as hungover!”

Chuckling, Dean shrugs, not giving anything away. He then gives Sam a small smile and remarks, “Do you know how pink your cheeks get when you’re drinking?”

“Shut up,” Sam mumbles. In the half second he looks down into his lap, Dean’s swooped down to kiss him, lips pressing light and fast, then gone again, just as quick. Sam’s stomach tosses for a second, hating that he let Dean think this is ok, but thankfully he doesn’t need to say anything because Dean’s grabbing his hand and  tugging him to his feet.

“You look like hell,” Dean says with a grin, slapping him on the back. “Where’s the nearest diner? You need a big, greasy breakfast to shake this off.”

Sam makes a gagging noise at the thought of food, but Dean nudges Sam down the hallways and out the door, and somehow they make it over to a diner just a couple blocks away.

The food that Dean orders for him is somehow both appetizing and nauseating at the same time. Of course, Dean digs into his platter with enthusiasm, and Sam eventually starts picking at his, taking little bites to placate his brother.

“So what’s there to do in this town?” Dean asks around a mouthful of eggs.

“Um. The beach? That’s pretty big. There’s a bunch of museums and art centers. Farmers markets.”

Dean makes a face. “How about for people who aren’t giant nerds?”

“Well. The beach,” Sam repeats with a smirk and a smartass tone. “Lots of bars. A few concert venues.”

“Isn’t college about partying? Experimenting? Doing stupid shit and hoping you live through it?” Dean’s eyebrows are raised in a clearly unimpressed and disappointed expression. “Live a little, Winchester.”

“Not really my scene.” Well,  _ most _ of it wasn’t. Sam’s probably done way more experimenting than he’d ever imagined when he was 15 and just starting to dream about college.

Dean makes a grating sigh through 5 half-chewed strips of bacon. “Alright, kid. You need groceries anyway. What’s the farmer’s market about?”

Sam’s incredulous. Dean can’t be serious. But his brother’s staring at him like he’d never once told Sam that he wouldn’t be caught dead at some hippie commune fruit stand, and Sam decides he’s not gonna question it. 

***

There couldn’t be a more perfect day to be outside. Sun soaking into their skin, Sam and Dean walk through the stands, making their way through summer squash and organic apples.

The pie stand gets Dean excited, and he grins as he grabs apple, peach, and cherry, all with perfectly browned and sugared crusts, smacking Sam’s arms as he finally concedes that maybe farmer’s markets aren’t all bad.

“Dude, I’m not buying all these,” Sam says firmly when Dean’s got his arms full. Dean gives him a pleading look, and Sam sighs. “Ok,  _ one _ , Dean. I mean it. Just one.”

Somehow, Dean ends up with all three.

Between stands, Dean keeps trying to pull Sam aside to make out, but Sam carefully side-steps every move, making up excuses with thin, nervous smiles. Dean’s fingers keep brushing against his as they walk. Eventually, Sam puts his hand into his pocket. He wonders if they can go back, if they can fix this. If they can be brothers again.

He wonders if Dean will even talk to him after their dad comes by with the cure.

Dean tries one last time, however, right behind a raw honey stand, gently pressing Sam against the back post and getting his mouth on Sam’s neck. It’s too much, and Sam’s way too sober for this, so he shoves Dean back – hard – and manages to growl, “I said  _ no _ , ok. This isn’t happening, Dean. Stop.”

His brother looks stunned and hurt, and  _ fuck _ , Sam hates himself for it but… he can’t take it back. He shouldn’t.

The drive back to the apartment is silent. 

They eat dinner quietly, then Sam tries to read the rest of his novel while Dean flips idly through TV channels. His legs tap with restless energy, and Sam suppresses the urge to bark at Dean to stop, like he would have usually done back when Dean knew who he was.

They go to bed without having talked, and Sam can feel Dean’s anxiety from the other side of the bed. Closing his eyes, still haunted by the image of Dean terrified out of his mind two nights ago, Sam reaches his hand out and grabs Dean’s. He half expects his brother to shove his hand away, but Dean lets Sam thread their fingers together and squeezes back.

***

“Sam? SAM!”

Blinking awake, Sam’s aware of something warm in his arms, someone’s hands around his wrists, trying to pry them off. Once his brain turns on, he realizes it’s Dean, and Sam’s got his arms wrapped tight around his chest.

“Oh. Um. Sorry.” Sam releases his brother and Dean immediately hops up and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, not looking back.

Sam doesn’t move.

The sound of a toilet flushing is quickly followed by the shower turning on, and Sam continues to wait under the warm covers, trying not to think about how much Dean’s side of the bed still smells like him.

It’s a good solid ten minutes after the shower’s shut off before Dean comes back in the room, pajama bottoms on but no shirt and looking so pretty that it squeezes at Sam’s heart. He shouldn’t be thinking about Dean like that, but he can’t seem to help it, not anymore. Not when he’s pretty sure he was dreaming about his brother’s mouth all night.

There’s a few stray drops of water dripping from Dean’s hairline, and when he looks at Sam, his jaw is tight and his eyes look wary.

“I – I’m sorry,” Sam tries, but Dean shrugs and gives Sam a flippant, empty smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and it’s the same careless, can’t-touch-me tone he always had when they had to pack up and leave another town or when a girl managed to break his heart (which didn’t happen much after Dean turned 18, when he stopped dating and became a serial one-night-stand kind of guy). 

“D –” Sam tries, but Dean interrupts.

“Nah, really. I won’t be here that long anyway, right? My dad’s coming to pick me up and fix me up. Take me back to… wherever I was before I came here to mess up your life.”

“You didn’t mess up anything!!” Sam manages to get out, but Dean just shrugs, grabbing his clothes from the chair on his way out the door.

God, even without memories, Dean’s still Dean; Sam’s snarky older brother with the weight of the world somehow still on his shoulders.

Sometime around noon, Dean disappears. Of course Sam panics, but he doesn’t have any clue where to start, and Dean’s got his car. So he waits in the apartment, hoping Dean comes back, trying to distract himself with homework and failing spectacularly. 

A few hours later, Dean finally stumbles back. Sam half-expects him to be drunk, but Dean looks sober. He doesn’t say where he’s been, but he does offer a quiet, “Sorry,” like he knows Sam must have been going out of his mind.

The walls of Sam’s apartment suddenly seem claustrophobic, and he can’t stand dancing around this thing with Dean anymore. He wants to yell at his brother for making him worry like that – he’d had flashes of Dean getting hurt or being taken advantage of or just being scared and alone. His pulse is still high, his body unable to stay still. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Sam says, and Dean raises an eyebrow. “Anywhere. I don’t care. Can we just drive?” 

“Yeah. Ok.”

They don’t talk, but it suddenly feels natural. Dean flips on the radio, although he keeps it low, windows cracked and the warm California salty breeze swirling inside the car. Instinctively, Dean stays away from city traffic, gets them on backroads and empty highways.

The radio gets turned up for a few songs – Dean’s favorites that Sam knows by heart. He sings along with those which makes Dean grin Grand Canyon-wide.

A while later, they end up at the kind of dive bar they both grew up in.

It’s not too crowded, and Sam and Dean grab some seats at the bar, order some whiskeys because it feels like that kind of night.

Right away, Sam notices that the far end of the bar is closed off with some rope, a stool tipped forward, napkin holders sectioning off the off-limits area.

“What’s that?” Sam asks when the bartender puts their glasses in front of them, motioning to the end of the counter.

“Don’t worry about it,” is thrown back at him in a disinterested voice.

From a couple chairs down, an older gentlemen moves so he can stare at them, waiting until they get uncomfortable enough to look his way before he clearly states, “Haunted.”

“Dammit, shut up Joel,” the bartender sighs irritatedly, but the Joel waves a dismissive hand.

“We all know it. And they should know if they’re gonna sit that close to it.”

Sam’s wary. This could go either way, really. He’s hoping, however, that these people are the typical crowd of bored locals, looking for some way to stir up their sleepy townlife. But then Joel points a finger towards the end of the bar and continues, “Ray used to sit there. Meanest sonuvabitch this town had. Liked to choke his girlfriends, too. Owed the wrong guys money, and when they came to collect, got his throat slit open. Bled out all over that stool.”

Dean whistles low. “Damn. And now he’s haunting this bar, trying to snag free peanuts?” 

“Trying to choke people to death,” Joel corrects in admonishment. “Been doing it for about a month. It wasn’t bad at first. We thought maybe the air circulation was bad over there or a leaky gas line. But last week poor Eileen got her windpipe nearly crushed, so no one’s sat there since.”

Dammit. Sam really doesn’t want to have do anything about this. But he knows he can’t walk away, not when there’s a chance of truth in that story. And Dean – the full-memories version of his brother – would also kill him if he knew Sam risked letting more innocent people get hurt.

Not wanting to make a scene, Sam decides to wait until he and Dean have thrown back a few shots. Dean chats up the patrons around them, gets himself involved in a weird conversation about local summer traditions in town involving eggs and watermelons. Every town’s got something. Sam’s been keeping an eye on the barkeep for a while now, and the moment the guy steps away to use the restroom, Sam carefully stands up, grabs the haunted stool, and takes it down the hallway. Going through the Employee’s Only door, he grabs a bottle of liquor then heads out the back door to the alley. With any luck, no one will notice him or the chair gone until he’s finished.

Once outside, he starts dumping alcohol all over the chair, soaking it since it’s mostly metal and plastic. From his pocket, he pulls out a matchbook and pouch of salt that he carries with him at all times. Old habits die hard.

Before he can strike the match, however, his body gets picked up and thrown into the brick wall, slamming into it twice and knocking the wind out of him. He’s gasping on the dirty ground, arms scraped and burning from being skinned against the brick, when his brother shoves the heavy service door open and sees Sam on the concrete.

“Sam!"

Dean runs over, but he’s stopped halfway by some invisible entity that shoves him to the ground and throws him onto his back. His face immediately goes purple, and Sam can tell by the way Dean’s clawing at his neck that he’s being choked, nice and hard.

Sam tries to call out his brother’s name or jump to his feet, but his body’s forgotten how to breathe. He can see Dean struggling on the ground, choking to death, and Sam’s chest tightens even more while his vision’s edging with blackness.

It’s the longest two minutes of his life before he manages to regain control of his body, before his lungs finally fill again with air. The moment he’s able, he rushes over to the chair, strikes another match, and lights the whole thing on fire before anything can stop him. Flames flares up around the stool, and whatever’s choking Dean suddenly disappears, leaving Dean slumped back to the ground, gasping weakly.

“Fuck! Fuck, Dean, are you ok?” Sam kneels next to his brother, hands carefully checking the most obviously areas for signs of trauma.

“Do I  _ look _ fucking okay?” Dean wheezes out, neck already turning blue. He’s bruised but alive, and honestly, in better condition than he is after most hunts.

Sam can’t help it, he gathers Dean up in his arms, hugging tight because he’s never been so scared. Dean doesn’t remember what’s out there; he can’t take these kinds of chances. He doesn’t have the training or experience or knowledge anymore, and fuck, why does Dean have to be so goddamn stubborn, why does he throw his whole self into every fight like he thinks nothing can touch him? (Like he thinks his life isn’t worth much anyway?)

Why is this still happening even when Dean doesn’t even remember that life? 

“Don’t you dare do that again,” Sam hisses furiously while Dean’s eyes widen. “You can’t just come after me when –”

“When what?” Dean’s hoarse voice is incredulous with a tinge of just-building anger. “When you’re going after a ghost? Is that what that fucking was? And you were gonna just take care of it by yourself?”

Grabbing Dean by the front of the shirt, Sam yanks him over, so pissed off, so far from gentle because Dean doesn’t deserve it and if Sam needs to scare him straight, then ok. “You’re so goddamn stupid,” Sam says and smashes his mouth against his brother’s.

Dean fights it, hands slapping at Sam, nails catching, but it’s uncoordinated and unskilled and Sam easily grabs Dean’s wrists and twists them behind his back. He can feel Dean’s whimpers against his mouth, although he knows it’s more from frustration than pain.

When Dean manages to get a breath, he’s furious. “You goddamn bitch, you can’t yank me around like this, shutting me down one day and working me up the next.”

“Shut up.” 

Sam pushes Dean into the gravel, releasing his wrists and sliding himself overtop his brother’s body. When he runs a hand across Dean’s stomach, he feels a full shiver run through Dean’s muscles, and he bends himself over to push Dean’s shirt up, mouthing across the silky skin around a softly indented belly button.

“Is it the romantic smell of piss and dumpster garbage out here that’s turning you on?” Dean’s smartass voice is a little shaky, and Sam can see the way the front of his jeans start to fill out as Sam’s hands brush up and down Dean’s hips and legs.

Instead of answering, Sam unzips his brother’s jeans and shoves his boxers and pants down just far enough for Dean’s dick to slip out, half-hard and blushing pink. Dean makes a muted gasp.

“Fuck – you’re… really gonna do this. Out here.”

“Really am,” Sam affirms and opens his mouth to gulp Dean’s dick down. 

His brother thrashes, back arching up, and Sam holds onto Dean’s hips with gravel-dirty hands, trying to hold him still while Sam opens wide to deep-throat Dean’s cock down further, humming happily when he gets Dean down to that sweet spot. Immediately, Dean’s hips jerk forward and Sam can taste the blurt of pre-come rolling out the top of Dean’s dick to join the spit streaming down Sam’s mouth and throat.

Through half-lidded lashes, Sam sees Dean’s back arched, his head thunked back, and Sam smiles around his mouthful of cock. He can hear Dean muttering, “Fuck,  _ fuck _ , Sammy, fuck,” over and over.

His hands are way too dirty to get on Dean’s dick, so Sam resorts to nuzzling up and down with his cheek to get some skin-to-skin stimulation, working Dean up with his throat and tongue, feeling the way Dean’s muscles start contracting. Dean starts spasming when Sam’s got him deep, deep inside. At the last second, Sam pulls back, just far enough so Dean comes white and hot on Sam’s tongue, every blurt gathered up then swallowed wet so he can taste Dean all the way down.

Panting heavily, Dean collapses back on the dirty alley and Sam climbs up his body so he can press his mouth hard against his brother’s, licking the taste of Dean right back into his brother’s mouth, feeling satisfied when Dean doesn’t even protest, doesn’t seem to have the energy to do anything other than let Sam do what he wants.

They’re still cuddled up on the uncomfortably rough ground when they hear the sound of the heavy service door open, and Sam lifts his head to see the bartender peering over at them, expression turning irritated when he sees them sprawled together on the ground. 

“Goddammit, go get a fucking room,” the guy mutters. When he catches sight of the singed chair, his expression goes even more irritated before he squints at them again and, disgusted, says, “Jesus fuck what the hell are you doing out here to my furniture? God, you’re both sick fucks out here like this. I should call the police.”

They don’t answer but take that as their cue to leave, Dean’s face going red as he jumps to his feet and tucks his wet, spent dick back into his pants. They exit through the side of the alley under the repulsed eye of the bartender, dirt and gravel falling off them with every step.

“Where to now?” Dean asks when they’re back inside the car, and Sam looks out at the quickly darkening sky. They’re a minimum of three hours out from Stanford.

“Motel?”

Dean nods, pointing his car in a random direction and driving until they find a place to stay.

Immediately, Dean heads into the shower. Sam’s right behind, shedding shirt and shoes, standing in front of Dean who suddenly looks nervous. Blushing, Dean strips off his dirt-caked clothes, revealing Sam’s dirty handprints all over his stomach and chest, two especially dark sets on Dean’s hips where Sam’s hands had stayed for most of the blowjob.

It’s almost a shame to let Dean wash them off.

Sam ends up with the washcloth, sudsing Dean up and wiping him down, watching the water at their feet go through various shades of gray and brown before Dean’s reasonably clean.

They turn the water temperature up high, steam brushing their shoulders and slipping over the walls of the shower. When Sam starts kissing Dean’s wet, clean skin, he feels his brother go still before quietly asking,    


“Is there something you need to tell me? About us?”   


“Like what?” Sam keeps dragging his mouth over Dean’s shoulders, feeling a little drunk on just this.

“Like whatever reason you’ve got for going so hot and cold on me. Something happen before you left for college? Is there… some girlfriend, boyfriend that I should know about?”

“I didn’t exactly leave under great circumstances,” Sam admits, and he wraps his arms around Dean, lays his cheek against his freckled, wet back. “You… took it badly. And I didn’t break the news very well, kinda told everyone and ran. It felt like the only way to do it. I didn’t think I’d be able to tell you and not let you convince me to stay. God, Dean, I couldn’t stand breaking your heart like that. Couldn’t deal with my own. Haven’t seen you since that night.”

There’s a moment when Sam worries Dean is gonna shove Sam away, tell him off for trying to hide all this, and insist on booking a new room with two beds. It’s too quiet for too long, and Sam can feel the movement of Dean breathing against his hands. In. Out. In. Out. Pause.

“S’ok,” Dean finally rumbles out, and he rubs a hand over Sam’s, turns in his arms. There’s a slow smile tugging at the corner of Dean’s mouth as he says, “I shoulda figured out by now that you’re a giant girl. Gotta overthink everything.”

Sam gets pressed into the corner of the shower and kissed hungrily, Dean’s mouth and hands everywhere, crotches pressed together as Dean hooks a leg around Sam’s hip and rocks until Sam sees stars.

They make out until the water heater empties and the shower starts to turn cold. Seven steps gets them to the bed, their mouths immediately slotting back up against each other.

“How you wanna do this, Sammy?” Dean asks through kiss-swollen lips.

Sam’s brain glitches offline with a sharp inhale. He can’t believe there was a time when he didn’t want Dean so bad that it hurt. When he didn’t know how fucking beautiful Dean looks, naked and hard on top of him. 

Leaning back, Dean grinds his hips into Sam’s lap, lips twitched in amusement. “Did I break you? Was the thought of getting in this sweet ass too much for you?”

Chuckling weakly, Sam shakes his head. “Fuck, you’d feel so good, Dean. Bet you take cock like a dream.”

Cocky smile. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl.”

Sam’s hands go to Dean’s ass, palms cupping up and down, kneading into the muscle while Dean continues rutting. Deep huffs from both of them, little grunts and groans that drive each other on.

“Not gonna fuck you tonight.”

Dean pauses. Raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me you wanna tie me up and spank me? Dress me up in panties and skirt and call you “Daddy” while you jerk off in a chair?” He waggles a finger at Sam, smirks. “I just knew you were a kinky sonuvabitch.”

Snorting, Sam shakes his head. “No, you’re gonna fuck  _ me _ . I don’t think I have the patience to open you up slowly like you’d probably need. And I like it either way. Plus…” He wraps his arms around Dean’s back and pulls him forward so he can lick into his brother’s mouth, get Dean pliant and breathless again. “I wanna see you in action. God, I bet you could hit that sweet spot in me without even trying.”

He can feel Dean’s cock twitch against his stomach, and Sam grins to himself, arching into it and already wondering how deep Dean’ll be able to hit.

“Fuck me,” he whispers.

Dean sucks in a quick breath and leaks pre-come onto Sam’s stomach. His body squirms, already obviously thinking about it and so turned on. But there’s still a waver of uncertainty in his eyes. “You sure?” 

“Yeah.” He can see his big brother’s brain working, knows where it’s probably going. “Not gonna hurt me,” he assures Dean. Then, dark smile. “Although, I kinda want you to.”

 

Dean is a methodical animal, driving his dick in deep and hard, watching Sam carefully for every reaction, every twitch that means Sam loves it, and bears down in that same spot until Sam’s a whimpering mess. Sam tries to reach down to grab his own cock, hard and wet and throbbing, but Dean grabs his wrist and shoves it above his head.

“Not yet, Sammy. Not yet.”

He keeps fucking in until Sam’s shaking with it, so close to the edge but he can’t tip over.

“Please,” Sam whimpers, and Dean leans down, careful to avoid rubbing up against Sam’s cock, and kisses Sam. It’s sloppy because Sam’s not coordinated enough to reciprocate, and he feels Dean’s wry smirk as he pulls away.

“Did you miss me?”

Sam blinks stupidly, body flooded with too many chemicals, lizard brain taking over, and it takes a while for it to catch up and make sense of the words his brother just said. But then Dean suddenly stops pounding, one last snap of his hips that rams the bed against the wall, makes Sam’s head jerk back. He can feel Dean’s cock dragging inside, achingly slow, pulling out until his glans are the only thing keeping Sam’s hole open and then slowly shoving deep again.

“Did you miss me?” Dean repeats, quieter.

“O-of course I did, Dean,” Sam replies. He can feel his pulse throbbing from the side of his throat. “God, you - you have no idea how much. I – I almost packed up and came home a hundred times in that first month. I didn’t know how to do it – anything – without you. I still don’t.”

“Good.” Dean’s still catching his breath, eyelashes fluttering when he bottoms out again. “I – I know I don’t remember. But god, I know I missed you too.”

Sam almost chokes on his tongue when Dean finally reaches down to fist Sam’s cock in his hands, jacking up and down so smooth and good that it only takes a few seconds until Sam’s sobbing out an orgasm, spurting so hard that it goes up his stomach and chest, flecks reaching his chin.

“Fuck, god,” Dean gasps out, and he grabs shoves Sam’s legs even higher so he can start pounding in again, not caring how hard the bed’s rattling against the wall. A loud shout echos around the room when Dean comes, shoving harder against Sam’s cramping thigh muscles. It occurs to Sam too late that neither one of them thought about protection, but he wouldn’t give up this moment for the world.

Collapsing on top with a loud sigh, Dean immediately snuggles up, panting hot into Sam’s chest as he struggles to catch his breath. 

Sam waits until Dean starts snoring before slipping out. He takes a quick whore’s bath, brushes his teeth, then brings a warm washcloth out to wash up his brother. He feels so content when he slides back into bed, gathering Dean up who instinctively curls up around him in his sleep.

***

He wakes up starving. And alone.

There’s a note, however, left on the nightstand saying Dean went out to grab some breakfast, so Sam takes a quick shower. His asshole is still sore, and he reaches back, prodding his fingers in, reveling in how sensitive it still is. God, he wants to do that again.

He’s got a towel around his hips, trying to decide if he wants to put on yesterday’s clothes when Dean walks in, arms full of food. He quickly closes the door then stares at Sam, heated look in his eyes that Sam remembers from last night.

“Do you wanna take a picture?” Sam jokes, but Dean nods.

“Yeah. Would you let me?” 

Blushing, Sam nods, and Dean pulls out his phone, snaps a picture, then winks at Sam and spreads the food out on the table.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Let’s get some protein in you.”

Sam’s phone goes off while they’re halfway through breakfast. It’s their dad. Sam looks over at Dean, thinks briefly about taking the call outside, but ultimately decides against it. Flipping his phone open, Sam sighs and says, “Hey.”

Their dad’s never been one for small talk and gets right into it. “I should be there before nightfall. You taking care of Dean?”

“Dean’s fine,” Sam answers stiffly. “Do you need my address?”

“Not necessary,” John says, and Sam doesn’t bother asking why.

“Ok. See you then.”

They both hang up without so much as a “goodbye,” although that’s pretty much par for the course for John Winchester.

“My dad coming soon?” Dean asks, and Sam nods.

“Tonight.”

“Yeah?” Dean looks like he’s got more questions, but maybe figures he can wait until tonight, until he hopefully gets his memories back anyway. Instead, he swallows his last bite of pancakes then walks over, kicks a leg over Sam’s towel-covered lap, and settles himself down. “You wanna make the most of the time we got left?” he offers with a coy smirk.

Sam slips his hands underneath Dean’s shirt to rub at his warm back. “Think you’re a little overdressed.”

“I can fix that.”

Smirking, Dean keeps his eyes on Sam while shimmying out of his shirt, hips lifting just long enough to shove his jeans down. Then he starts grinding, naked and hot in Sam’s lap. They make out like that for a while, letting everything build up. They don’t have all the time in the world, but they do have most of the day.

Finally, Dean squirms, pulls back with a wet pop, and, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s cock, sighs, “Don’t know how you’re gonna fit this monster inside me, but I need it right-the-fuck now.”

“It’ll fit,” Sam promises, grinning. He stands, hauling Dean up with him, and manages to toss him on the bed. “Turn around.” Dean’s face flushes as he obeys, turning onto his stomach, knees and hands in front of him.

It turns out that Dean really,  _ really _ likes being eaten out.

He goes boneless, dick leaking onto the coverlet, whimpering high and breathless while Sam’s tongue works inside his ass.

God, Sam could do this for hours. Thinks about doing this for hours and just never showing back up at his apartment, standing his father up and keeping amnesia-Dean forever. He wants nothing more than to keep his brother with him, but he knows it’s not possible. Nor is it fair to Dean.

The sound Dean makes when Sam starts adding fingers is so hurt, so needy, that Sam tries to store it in his brain to remember forever, when this is over. By the time he’s fucking three fingers into his brother, Dean is humping back into it, voice catching on a sob as he begs Sam to please,  _ please _ fuck him now, don’t fucking tease, I can take it, please.

Sam slurps dirtier, lets his fingers makes little sucking sounds just to feel the shivers running down Dean’s spine, like he’s so embarrassed that his body could sound this dirty and slutty.

“Bet you could come on just my fingers,” Sam muses aloud, feels the reverberation of Dean’s jumping nerves from all the way inside Dean’s asshole. He leans forward and purses his lips just right to blow cool air between his fingers squelching with lube.

Dean jerks forward with a short cry. “ _ Sam _ .” It seems to be all he can say now, and Sam doesn’t have to see his brother’s face to know that he’s got tears in his eyes.

He drags it out because he really doesn’t want to hurt Dean, and he knows from experience that he’s a lot to take in for most guys. (He also does it because he can, because he likes getting Dean all strung out and desperate).

Dean groans a low, pained sound when Sam finally pushes in, Dean’s ass tipped up, face against a pillow because it’s easier this way. He wants to see his brother’s face, and he’s definitely going to by the time he finishes, but at this angle, he can shove in deep, make Dean feel it in his gut.

“Doing ok?” Sam asks, smiling at the nonsense sounds Dean gives as an answer.

Once Sam starts fucking in, he can feel himself lose control, eyes unfocused as the only thing he cares about is the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the feel of Dean’s tight, vice-like grip on his dick.

Dean’s making wet sounds, like he’s drooling onto the pillow, gasping every time Sam slides in deep-deep, taking care to find that soft gland inside that makes Dean jerk.

Sam starts babbling, words tumbling out because he didn’t know it would be this good, can’t stop. “Fuck, Dean, feel so good, baby, wanna make you take it like this forever, messing up a new motel bed every day, fucking every bed filthy like you like it, like this, fuck –  _ fuck _ , Dean!”

He’s too close, and he grabs Dean’s hips, shoves himself out and hears Dean gasp and groan.

“No no no no, put it back in, Sam you gotta –!” 

Flipping Dean over, Sam shoves back in with one hard thrust. Dean’s mouth gasps open, but the sounds are choked back, like he can’t talk with his gut full of Sam, he’s too full, Sam’s dick all the way up in his throat.

It doesn’t make more than a brush against Dean’s cock to set him off, screaming into the ceiling.

Shoving Dean’s legs open wider, higher, Sam ruts himself in with tight, short movements, feeling himself so deep inside, brushing places Dean has probably never had touched. His orgasm comes like a rockslide, sudden and rumbling and huge, and he groans and sobs into it, nudging himself deeper with every pulse, wanting Dean to be so full with him that it’ll never come out.

God, it was all too much.

They don’t cuddle when they finish; too sore, too tired. Sam dozes in and out for an hour, comforted by the heat he can feel from the other side of the bed.

When they can finally move, they shower, separately. Dean first, so he uses all the hot water, but Sam doesn’t complain, figures the cold can help ground him anyway. He needs to face reality.

It’s quiet during the drive back, both of them apprehensive. But it still feels natural.

***

John arrives late in the evening, obviously beat. He doesn’t say much to Dean, just shoves a small pouch at Sam, tells him it needs to steep in some hot water before Dean can drink it.

Dean looks over at Sam from over his steaming mug, looking uneasy, but Sam can’t look him in the eye. Ice is digging in his guts, worry that Dean is never going to talk to him again.

He knows the moment Dean gets his memories back. He looks over at Sam with slow horror and disgust, bends into himself and looks like he’s gonna be sick.

“Yeah, the witch said it might upset your stomach,” John said, watching his son carefully. He pats Dean’s back for a minute then looks up at Sam.

“As soon as your brother’s feeling ok, we’ll head out. We’ll be at the Ocean Roadway motel I saw a few blocks up.”

Sighing, Sam says, “No, you can stay here.”

“If that’s what you want,” his dad says, voice cool. “We’ll be gone first thing tomorrow.”

Sam pulls out some blankets, sets up the couch. He doesn’t dare try to talk to Dean, but he hears his brother mumble to no one in particular that he’s gonna sleep on the floor.

Halfway through the night, Sam feels a pressure on the edge of his bed. He turns to see Dean sitting on the mattress, staring down at him. His expression is unreadable, blank, but it makes Sam uneasy, brings all that heavy guilt to the surface.

“Why?”

Sam opens his mouth - but he has no answer. Doesn’t understand it himself, really.

“Why did you let me do all that? Why didn’t you tell me we were brothers?” Dean’s voice is low and angry, and Sam can’t blame him for being upset.

“I don’t know.” It’s a feeble, empty answer, but it’s the truth. “Dean I – I was wrecked, ok. Dad told me never to come back, I thought I’d never see you again. I was a fucking mess for mont –”

“ _ You _ were a mess? Dammit, Sam, how do you think  _ we  _ felt? You just left –”

“That’s not the point,” Sam interrupts, frustrated. “I’m so sorry, ok. I just didn’t wanna relive that. I wanted to enjoy having you around, not hating me. God, I know I fucked up. I don’t know why… I didn’t expect all that to happen.”

Dean’s quiet, and he’s back to not looking Sam in the eye.

“Ok.” Sam can hear Dean deciding to push this all down, not think about it, not talk about it again. His voice goes soft. “Ok. Good night, Sammy.”

Tentatively, “You can stay if you want –”

He sees a full shiver go through Dean’s body. “God, no!” and he walks away.

“Night, Dean,” Sam says to an empty doorway.

***

Their dad’s up early, showering, checking a few routes and updating Dean on the newest hunt. Duffle bags slipped over their shoulders, Dean and John start to walk out the door, but Sam grabs Dean’s arm before he step outside.

“Wait.” 

Dean’s shoulders slump, and he looks like he thinking about just shrugging Sam off and leaving. But he he can’t do it. He’s never been able to walk away from Sam, and Sam knows it.

John sighs. “Two minutes, Dean. I need you on the road right behind me.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to Sam all morning. Sam didn’t really try, either, didn’t know what to say. But he can’t let Dean walk out the door like this.

“Don’t forget your pies.”

Dean accepts the bag filled with three uneaten pies and finally looks up at Sam.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is quiet. “Just so you know, what Dad said when you left… I don’t think he meant it, but, uh, that was all him. You don’t have to cut off ties, Sam, not with me. We’re still brothers.”

Those words patch up so many of the gutted places inside Sam, deep inside where he knows if Dean truly walked away, he’d never recover.

“Thanks.” 

And then, because Sam doesn’t wanna pretend, can’t seem to stop himself from fucking everything up, he presses Dean into the doorway and kisses him. For twenty seconds, Dean lets him, opens his mouth up in return, goes soft and willing. But then he sharply turns away, makes a low, frustrated sound, and walks out.

Sam watches them load up their cars then drive away. Something inside tells him he should be going with them, he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t fit in. But he shoves that feeling deep, deep down. It’s too late.


End file.
